Five Lives Dorian Didn't Lead
by TelWoman
Summary: Five alternate universe stories, in which Dorian leads very different lives. First published mid-2013.
1. Husband

"Now Dorian! What's this I hear?" The Dowager Countess of Gloria swept into the drawing room, where Dorian was reading _The Times._

"I don't know, Mother. You'll have to give me a clue."

The Countess sat down opposite her son, pulling off her gloves. "Poor Amanda came to see me yesterday. She was in tears, Dorian. _In tears._ She told me that she was leaving you."

Dorian drew an exasperated breath. "Mother, you can hardly be surprised."

"I knew it would come to this. I knew it."

The door opened, and a young blond man – a very pretty young blond man – leaned in. "Dorian, do you think—" Catching sight of the Dowager Countess, who was looking at him in a most disapproving manner, he stammered, "Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't realise. Sorry, Dorian— er— sorry, my lord. Excuse me."

Blushing crimson, he closed the door and hastened away.

The Countess now turned her disapproving gaze on her son.

"Well! I might have known. You are your father all over again. In your own home! In front of your children!"

Dorian heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Peregrine and Lucinda are both at school, as you very well know, Mother. And, as this _is_ my home, I shall do what I like in it." He crossed to the sideboard that held a cluster of cut-crystal decanters. "Would you like a drink, Mother? Sherry, perhaps?" He poured himself a glass of brandy.

"No, thank you," the Countess said stiffly. "Dorian, I can't express how disappointed I am about this. I think you owe it to your family to try to stay together with Amanda. Think of the children."

Dorian's eyebrows rose. "Think of the children? Mother, you left Father when I was thirteen. You packed us all up and took us away to live in Berkshire."

"I hoped to give you a better life. Your father was setting you a very bad example, what with his endless parties and his money-wasting and all those young men hanging around the house all the time." She shuddered in disgust. "I thought if I got you away from him there might be some hope of your turning out normal. I see now I was mistaken."

Sipping his brandy, Dorian gazed out of the window at the soft green fields and the orchards pink and white with early spring blossom. He'd loved that view as a child, gazing from his nursery window. But the Castle had been sold to pay his mother's divorce settlement, and the late Earl, Dorian's father, had gone off to live in Cornwall.

When he made his first million on the London stock exchange, Dorian bought the Castle back in a sudden rush of sentimental enthusiasm. His mother had been overjoyed. She took it as a sign that her son was going to put the fortunes of the Gloria family to rights. Dorian's marriage to Amanda Fitzwilliam, and the subsequent birth of their two children, were further reassurances that the world was as the Dowager Countess would like it to be.

"Look, Mother." Dorian turned back to face her. "Amanda and I have nothing in common. We're better off apart. The children won't want for anything. It's 1997, Mother – divorce is socially acceptable these days."

He couldn't resist rubbing salt into that old wound. Her status as a divorced woman had cast enough of a shadow on her social life to make her resentful.

He downed the last of his brandy. "At least I'll be able to stop pretending."


	2. Boyfriend

"Another Mojito, please, darling!" Dorian flashed his most brilliant smile at the steward.

"Dorian, don't you think you've had enough?" James, hand paused above his calculator, looked pointedly at his lover.

"Oh, Jamesie, another one won't hurt."

Gian-Maria Volovolonte's yacht was anchored off Monte Carlo; James and his beautiful blond lover were his guests, along with several other 'business associates' he wanted to impress.

The Don lounged on the deck in shorts, his loud Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to reveal a hairy chest and belly, a straw hat pulled low over his mirrored sunglasses. "Don't worry about him so much, James. He's having a good time. He can't come to any harm here."

James turned his attention back to the documents he was poring over, and said nothing as the steward brought Dorian another drink.

"He's a pretty thing, your boyfriend," Don Gian-Maria remarked. "Pretty enough to be a girl. Though nobody could mistake him for a girl, not with a body like that – he's got the body of an athlete." He leered at James. "Lucky you."

James smiled uncomfortably. He'd thought bringing Dorian with him would be a mistake, but the Don had insisted. The Don was one of his most important clients, so he couldn't afford to upset him.

Volovolonte wanted to introduce James to some of his associates from New York – and James knew that working for the Mob in New York would bring in earnings beyond his wildest dreams. He was grateful to Volovolonte for arranging the introduction. He just wished it didn't have to happen on a five day yacht cruise in the Mediterranean – what a waste of time and money – and he wished Volovolonte hadn't insisted he bring Dorian with him.

Dorian was giggling and flirting with the steward, who looked embarrassed.

"Dorian, he's straight," James murmured. "Leave him alone."

Volovolonte smiled indulgently. "Don't worry about it. Louis doesn't mind – do you Louis? Dorian? Would you like some suntan oil on your back?"

In response, Dorian turned over, and held a bottle of suntan lotion out to the Don, who tossed the bottle to a passing crew member. "Here, Franco – help out our guest, will you?"

Dorian smiled flirtatiously as the crewman sat down beside him and unscrewed the bottle.

James focused on his calculations, ignoring Dorian's delighted wriggling. He loved Dorian; he just wished he wasn't so empty-headed sometimes.

Volovolonte pulled his chair closer to James.

"Don Lupinacci will be joining us this evening. He's a powerful man in New York, James. If he likes your work, it will be good for you. He'll open doors. Make you a rich man." He sipped his whisky thoughtfully. "I've invited him to become a business partner in one of my ventures here in Europe. I'm hoping for his backing on one or two aspects of the project."

James looked up. So there was more to this meeting than introducing his favourite accountant to a new client.

Volovolonte gazed out over the rail at the sparkling water, his expression shielded by his mirrored glasses.

"Don Lupinacci's a widower. In New York, he takes beautiful women to gala events, showers them with jewels. But he's a man of broad tastes, if you see what I mean. I think he'll like Dorian. Perhaps you could encourage your pretty friend to be nice to him?"


	3. Professor

"Dorian! Dorian, could I have a word?" Dr Sam Bayfield hurried out into the College quad in pursuit of his colleague.

The Professor of Art History turned, smiling. "Hello Sam. What's up?"

Bayfield lowered his voice. "Could I have a word in private, do you think? I'd like your advice about something. Something rather sensitive."

"Of course. Come up to my rooms."

The two men settled themselves in the Professor's study, overlooking the quad, where wisteria hung on the archways of the cloisters, pale purple against the honey-gold stone. Dorian poured two glasses of port, and handed one to Bayfield.

"Now, what's the matter, Sam?"

Bayfield looked uncomfortable. "Look, Dorian, before I tell you anything I have to ask you to keep this conversation absolutely confidential."

"I'll keep it confidential if I can. You haven't committed some heinous crime, have you?"

"No, of course I haven't. But I have been – rather foolish." Bayfield sipped his wine, and placed the glass on the table by his chair. "Dorian, half your students are in love with you. How do you cope with that?"

Dorian laughed. "I think 'half' is an exaggeration, Sam."

"But how do you manage?" Bayfield persisted. "I mean, how do you keep it from becoming a problem? Some of them flirt with you shamelessly. I've seen them."

Dorian fixed his colleague with a concerned gaze. "Sam, what's this about?"

Bayfield stared up at the ceiling, searching for the right words. "Look, it's common practice for tutors to mix socially with senior students. Friendships aren't uncommon. Some academics form lifelong friendships with their students, to their mutual benefit." He broke off. "God, I'm rambling. There's no excuse for this."

"What have you done, Sam?"

"Peter Renishaw. One of my Doctoral students. Christ, Dorian. I slept with him." Bayfield covered his face with his hands.

Dorian's throat constricted. Bayfield was a close friend, a good colleague. He was a discreet man, respectful of others. It distressed Dorian to see him racked with guilt and fear.

Silence hung between them for a few moments.

"I slept with one of my Professors when I was a student," Dorian said in matter-of-fact tones. "Nothing came of it. We remained on good terms."

"With respect, Dorian, that was the 1970s. Different times. These days, if you touch one of your students, the Moral Police will hang you out to dry." Bayfield buried his face in his hands again. "Christ, when this gets out, I'll be sacked. There'll be an inquiry. I'm finished."

Dorian topped up his friend's glass, and then his own. "So, what does Renishaw say about it? Has he made threats?"

"No. Well, I haven't seen him since. It was only last Friday."

"How old's Renishaw?"

"Twenty-five, twenty-six."

"Get this in perspective, Sam. He's an adult. He's not under age; you didn't coerce him. The student-teacher relationship muddies the water, but essentially, you're both consenting adults and you made a choice. Stop crucifying yourself, Sam. Most likely it will come to nothing."

Bayfield picked up his wineglass again. "Have you ever—? Has this ever happened to you?"

Dorian smiled faintly. "No. I know there's been speculation in the past. You said it yourself – some of the students flirt with me shamelessly. It's always been the way. But I never do anything about it."

Bayfield tried to smile. "Faithful to some well-loved husband you've got hidden away somewhere?"

His colleague shook his head. "No, Sam. No hidden husbands. I don't sleep with my students; I don't sleep with anyone. I'm celibate."

Bayfield looked incredulous. "I don't believe you."

"It's true." Dorian shrugged. "Sex isn't everything. By the time I was thirty, I was well and truly married to my career. All these gorgeous, bright young things we work with could be a huge temptation if I let them, but I don't. I haven't slept with anyone for more than ten years, Sam."

Dorian sipped his port.

"You know, Sam, Universities began as branches of the Church. For hundreds of years, if you were a member of a University, you were expected to be celibate. You could say I'm just following tradition."

"Not many people would want to live that way today, Dorian."

"Perhaps. But when I first joined the Fine Art faculty, I struggled. It was hard, deciding who I could keep company with, and who was out of bounds. So I made a decision – I stopped having sexual relations with anyone. It was hard at first, but I got used to it. Now, I wouldn't know how to go back to the realm of sexual negotiation."

Bayfield shook his head. "I admire your courage. I wouldn't be able to do that, Dorian."

His friend laughed. "Nobody would ask you to, Sam. Look, don't agonise over what happened. In all likelihood, nothing will come of it. You'll have to face Renishaw sometime, seeing he's your student, but you're both adults. You can work it out."


	4. Wage Earner

Stephen insisted on keeping their destination a secret, but he couldn't resist dropping hints.

"You're gonna love it, Dorian. You like history; this is a genuine historic place. It's in Kent; beautiful countryside. And it's luxurious! Nothing but the best for my Dorian."

Boston-born, confident, and smart, Stephen was living in London, working for an American company. He had a well-paid job, a flat overlooking the Thames, a shiny new sports car, and a gorgeous English boyfriend. They'd been lovers for three months, and Stephen was planning to celebrate that with a romantic weekend for two in the country. He felt sure he'd found the right place – somewhere Dorian would approve of, somewhere genuinely elegant and tasteful.

As they crested a hill in the rolling North Downs, Stephen brought the car to a halt. Turning, he was startled to see tears welling in Dorian's eyes – but then, Dorian was inclined to be emotional about beauty. And the view _was_ breathtaking.

"That's where we're staying," he said proudly, laying a hand on Dorian's shoulder. "Parkwood Manor Hotel."

Dorian smiled, wistful. "It used to be called Castle Gloria."

"You know the place?"

"I lived there when I was a child."

Stephen had talked endlessly to his lover about his own family, because he missed them, but Dorian had told him very little about his. If this had been Dorian's family home—

They drove down and left the car in the neat gravelled car-park. Stephen signed the register. While he dealt with the Reception Desk staff, Dorian gazed at their surroundings. The wood panelling was the same; the chandelier was grander, the artworks were different, and the polished floorboards had been covered up by plush wall to wall carpet – but it took very little to transport himself back to when he'd last lived there.

Their suite was on the eastern side of the building, overlooking the formal gardens with their neatly clipped box hedges. An elaborate fountain had been installed in the middle of the knot garden.

"These used to be my mother's rooms," Dorian said. "She had her writing table over there under the window."

Stephen slipped a gentle arm around his lover's waist. "Dorian, is this all right? I mean, I wanted to find somewhere you'd like. I had no idea this was your childhood home. Are you OK with this? I mean, if it's painful to see your old home turned into a hotel, we can go somewhere else."

"It's all right, Stephen. Don't worry, love – it's only a building. Come on, let's order some champagne, and then we'll go and explore the garden. See if they've made any other changes that are worse than that monstrosity of a fountain."

Stephen's own upbringing had been privileged. His parents were rich. He and his brothers had gone to private schools and the best universities. His father had often said, "Money talks" – and Stephen and his brothers had been encouraged to pursue well-paid careers. In his family's sphere, respect was gained by success: in your career, in your family life, in performing your civic duty.

Moving to England, Stephen had learned that respect could also be inherited. The English still respected the Royal Family and the nobility, although it was plain to him that those people no longer shaped the economic fortunes of the country.

"So, if you used to live here – is your family noble, Dorian?"

Dorian laughed. "For what it's worth. My father is the Earl of Gloria. He lives in Cornwall in a three bedroom bungalow, and owns a one-third share in a yacht that he can't afford."

He could see Stephen was struggling with the desire to ask about what had happened, so he decided to put him out of his misery.

"My parents separated just before my fourteenth birthday. Mother took my three sisters and left me with Father. He had to sell the Castle; her divorce settlement cost a lot, and he had debts. Father wasn't all that good with money. He and I went to live in Cornwall – although, of course, I was away at school most of the time, and then I went to Oxford."

"So, your father's an Earl? That means you're Lord Something? You'll be the Earl after he dies?"

"Much good may it do me. As you can see, there's no family seat." Here, Dorian gestured around at the opulently decorated hotel suite. "And no family fortune, either. I live on what I earn at Sotheby's. A glorified salesman with a Master's degree in Fine Art."

Although he was inclined to dismiss the monarchy and noble titles as anachronisms, Stephen still found something to admire in them. It seemed a shame that a noble family could end up broke, with nothing left but a title – and what was a title on its own? He tried to put this into words, but Dorian stopped him.

"Look, Stephen, it's something I can't afford to be sentimental about. As a child, I suppose I expected to grow up into a life of privilege. That's how my parents lived, when I was small. But they lost everything, and I've had to make my own way in the world." Dorian shrugged. "I'll never be rich. There's no money in art, unless you're a thief. But I do well enough." He draped his arms around his lover's neck. "I heard you holding forth about this at a party recently, didn't I? The days of title and privilege are over, and the world is moving toward democracy and equality for all? Isn't that what you were saying?"

Stephen looked slightly embarrassed. "Yeah. I said that. I meant it, too, I suppose. But it seems a shame."

"Just think of it as evolution, love – and remember, I'm a survivor."


	5. Spy

The first time he'd met Commander Dorian Red, Major von dem Eberbach had to revise his expectations.

Every Englishman he'd ever had to work with before had been useless. An arrogant race, the English believed they still ruled the world. _The sun never sets on the British Empire._ And behind every Englishman's smirk was the thought, _Who won the war, anyway?_ And they'd all been incompetent.

When he'd found out that Commander Red was an Earl, he was certain that the man would have twice the arrogance, twice the condescension, and no doubt twice the incompetence. He hadn't relished the prospect of collaborating with him.

That wasn't how things panned out. The mission had been a success, and in spite of his initial reluctance, Klaus had to admit that the Commander was a competent man. More than competent. MI6 went up in Klaus's estimation.

The second time he'd worked with Commander Red, they'd had to spend time together in Zanzibar, waiting for their contact to arrive. Inevitably, they'd got to know each other better, sitting in backstreet bars downing glass after glass of cheap, fiery spirits – whisky for Klaus, gin for the Commander.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, but on that mission, Klaus had begun to appreciate that Commander Dorian Red was a handsome man. And he was homosexual.

Klaus kept a low profile about his own sexuality. Sex was relatively unimportant in his life; he could never understand how men let themselves be ruled by their gonads, particularly in this line of work. Anything that could distract you could kill you. And officially, homosexuality wasn't tolerated by his employers – although if you were discreet, you could survive. Don't ask, don't tell.

Commander Red had no such inhibitions. Well, he was English – and everyone knew the English had no shame. In Zanzibar, the man took up with a good-looking young layabout who acted as his messenger boy during the day and his bed-warmer at night. Klaus had been disgusted – and just a little jealous.

Now, they were to work together for a third time, and Klaus was in Venice, waiting in the foyer of Teatro La Fenice for the Commander to appear.

"Ah, there you are!" Red's well-modulated English tones rang out clearly behind him.

Klaus turned.

The Commander was dressed in a superbly-cut tuxedo that flattered his athletic figure. "I thought since we were meeting here I might as well catch the first act. The tenor was superb – he has quite a career in front of him." Red looked Klaus up and down ruefully. "Come on, you stand out like a sore thumb in that trench-coat. Let's go back to my hotel and talk."

The Commander's hotel proved to be in the next street. He collected his key, requested a light supper to be sent up along with a bottle of red wine and a bottle of gin, and swept into the lift with Klaus trailing behind.

The supper was delivered within minutes. Pouring a glass of wine for Klaus, the Commander said, "Oh, I forgot: you prefer white wine and whisky, don't you? Well, never mind. This is a very good Nebbiolo, you'll enjoy it."

Klaus shrugged. They were here to discuss business. Not to get distracted by one's preferences in wine. Or the graceful, athletic movements of one's host. Klaus loosened his tie, and swallowed a large mouthful of Nebbiolo.

Discussions continued into the night. Commander Red's sharp mind impressed Klaus afresh; he had a capacity for detail that was mind-boggling.

They finished the wine and began working their way through the gin. Klaus had never liked gin, but he hardly took notice of the taste. He was too busy thinking about the details of the mission – and dealing with the distraction of Commander Red's proximity.

At last, he could stand it no longer. "Commander— Dorian—"

The Commander put down the file he'd been reading from, and stared dispassionately at Klaus's hand, which was resting on his knee. He looked up at Klaus's face, and saw from the heat in his colleague's eyes that his mind was no longer on the mission. He smiled, not unkindly, and removed Klaus's hand.

"Sorry, Major, but you're just not my type."

Klaus stared, thunderstruck. He hadn't expected to be brushed off.

Red patted the back of Klaus's hand, which was now on his own knee.

"My backup team arrives tomorrow. One of my lads is quite keen on the tall, dark and brooding type. I'll introduce you. You might like each other. But I've never gone for the Heathcliffian sort myself." He stood up, looking at his watch. "It's late. Let's reconvene after we've had a good night's sleep. 1100 hours? I'll meet you down in the lobby. Good night, Major."

Klaus found that he'd been steered out of the Commander's room into the hallway, and that he was staring at a firmly closed door.

_Anything that can distract you can kill you,_ he reminded himself; _or embarrass the hell out of you, anyway. Don't ask, don't tell – and don't make passes at degenerate Englishmen._

He stomped off to find his way back to his own hotel.


End file.
